Kiss From A Rose
by magickal one
Summary: Two time periods. One set in 1888, the other in present day. A foul murder, misplaced accusations, painful events change life forever. Love lives on. Will the past live again the present? Will fate twist again? EC, some fluff, nothing too intense.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: This story came from an idea I had last Christmas break. Once I had a dream about it, I realized that I should probably write it down! And so, this story was born. A big thank you to Lady Rosesong for reading it and giving it the polishing touch! Also, big thank you's to my tow friends at school for reading it as well, for letting me bounce ideas, and general buggings that happen when you write a story. _

_I do not own anything Phantom of the Opera related, and yes, some elements are influenced by the movie 'Dead Again'. Some titles are influenced my songs and music (what in life isn't?), and the title is a song by Seal with the same title. Listen to it, it is amazing. _

_Kiss From A Rose_

_Entré Act_

Paris, France, Present Day

"I'm late," was the only thing on Christine Daae's mind as she ran through the busy streets of Paris. She knew she had to be at the Opera House by eight a.m. sharp, and it was already ten to. She splashed through puddles as she tried to make her way through the pouring rain and driving wind. The streets of Paris were nearly deserted, giving them an eerie feeling. A few people were making their way through the rain, but most were huddled inside, away from the wind and the wet. _Most likely sitting around a fire, sipping wine or hot chocolate with a loved one _she thought, wishing that there were someone that she could do that with. _Well, there was—no! I'm not going to think about him._

"I'm late" she said again, waiting for the traffic to clear so she could cross the Boulevard Saint Germain. She was only in the ballet corps, but she was very proud of her position, and the fact that she was taking private voice lessons on the side to one day try out for the lead part in the opera. The hard, beating rain had only slowed her slightly, and the wind only seemed to make her hurry.

"I'm late" she said again, impatiently brushing her curly, brown hair from her face. Most of it was nicely pulled back from her face in its style for Act 1 of _Carmen, _but the pins were trying to come out, and her hair was threatening to escape. She cut through an alley, trying to improve her time.

"I'm late" she said again, her mind running though the list of things she brought with her: costumes, shoes, extra lambs wool, extra ribbon and elastic, thread and needles, scissors, hair pins, make-up, water, snacks, her purse, and an extra change of clothes. Thank god she had the foresight to wear her warm-up clothes on the way there: ballet pink tights, black leotard, black sweater, black cloth pants, a blue, sheer skirt, slip-on shoes. She started to pick up her pace, as the rain started to pour down. Her vision blurred as the wind and rain made is nearly impossible to see. She started to run. J_ust five more blocks,_ she thought to herself. _I can make it_. She clutched her bags to her, holding her umbrella high. The wind nearly tossed her aside, before she saw the Opera House. A smile lit up her face; she was only one block away.

"Made it", she said, and took off.

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He was sitting in a small café, almost across the street from the Opera House, called _Le Peiné Agile_. Sipping the small cup of strong, black coffee, he noticed a little girl looking at him. He smiled, and she smiled back. "Hello, what's your name?"

"Michelle."

"Michelle, that is a lovely name."

"Thank you." She paused, and then asked, "What happened to your face?"

He paused, raising his hand to feel the scars that ran all along the right side of his face. "I was in an accident a few years ago, but I'm all better now."

"Honey, we have to go now. Say goodbye to the nice man." The girls' mother came over, and took her hand.

"Bye."

"Goodbye." He watched as she left, feeling unsure about the question the girl had asked him. Although the accident had happened over five years ago, his face had stopped healing, and left him with a scar that ran around his right eye and cut across his right cheek, a few lines cutting into the area away from his temple. He hated the fact that he had a daily reminder of what happened so long ago, the accident that left him injured and Claire dead.

Pushing unhappy and unwanted thoughts out of his mind, he continued to drink his coffee, when he saw her running towards the Opera House, brown hair in a riot of curls flying out behind her. He watched her pause only for a second before she was off again. He smiled to himself, at the relief he saw in her face as she looked at the ancient building. Then he saw the car, speeding through the rain. He looked back at her, at the car, and then took off running towards her, his chair toppling over in his haste, immediately drenched to the bone. "Stop!" he called out to her, but she could not have heard him over the screech of brakes and squeal of tires.

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She was so close, it was right there. She knew that she would make it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something coming her way. She heard someone yell "Stop!" The next thing she knew, she was in pain.

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He ran over to her, praying that she was still alright. She was lying on the pavement, her legs unnaturally twisted beneath her. Her skirt was torn, so were her pants, and the tights beneath them, showing deep red cuts beginning to ooze. Her sweater was twisted, but her arms looked alright. Her hair had completely come out of its' pins, and made a soft brown halo around her face. In the puddle she was laying in, he could see red quickly replacing the clear liquid. He knelt down beside her, and gently cupped the side of her head, but removed his hand when is quickly became covered with hot, sticky blood. "Mademoiselle!" he said, taking her pulse. "MADEMOISELLE!" he said again, louder. Her eyes fluttered open. "Oh, thank God. Mademoiselle, can you tell me your name?" he asked. "Christine" she murmured, her eyes closing again. "Stay with me Christine. My name is Erik. I'm going to help you. Stay with me…"

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Pain. She felt so much pain, all over. She couldn't move, or talk, or blink. Someone was talking to her, holding her hand. She opened her eyes, and saw a man. A man with blue-gray eyes wanted to know her name. "Christine" she murmured, the felt her eyes close, and she slipped into unconsciousness.

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He looked around, but the dark of the day made the buildings look harsh and unfeeling. He took her hand, holding it tight, took out his cell phone with the other, and called an ambulance. "Stay with me Christine" he said. "Don't leave me…"


	2. Chapter 2

_A few people have responded to the prologue, so I decided to put up chapter 1, to try and keep readers and to show that this really is a Phantom story. Because I am still in the process of writing, I don't know how often I will post chapters, just because I don't want to run out of things to post if I get another bad bout of writers block. I blame the fact that I wasn't at school, and getting artsy ideas popping into my head in the middle of class. Anyway, here is chapter one. Please tell me what you think. _

_One more point. The length of the chapters will change. It all depends on what is happening, and where I feel a good place to break is. There are a few long ones coming up, so if you like the long chapters...you will be happy and smile-y!_

_I don't own PotO, or the title of the story. _

_Act 1, Scene 1_

_The Dance of Life_

Paris, France, 1881

"Don't leave me Christine!" The hushed voice behind her called out. "My dress is caught!"

Christine Daae turned around on the narrow, winding staircase to see her best friend, Meg Giry, tugging at her costume. The thin, delicate material was caught on the rough metal, and looked like it would tear in an instant.

"Be careful! You have to tug gently, or the material will rip. If you tear it, your mother will have a fit." Christine hurried back to friend, and a minute later they continued on their way. They ran down the stairs, from the fourth floor, to the second floor, through the costume room, past the wig makers and seamstresses, to the stairs that would take them directly to the first floor backstage, where the rest of their corps was warming up under the carefully meticulous eye of Meg's mother, Madame Madeleine Giry. They quickly stepped in the box of resin near the barre, and joined their class. Pliés, Tendus, Dégagés, Rond de james, Port de bras, Frappés, all rhythmically working their muscles, all familiar friends who made up the basic components of their dances. Christine felt her muscles begin to warm and become more flexible as she moved through the simple movements that were so important to art. Flexing and stretching, reaching and straining, arms, legs, every muscle working to its full potential to the tapping of Madame Giry's cane and the simple piano music played by a member of the orchestra.

"Finish up at the barre ladies, then get into your positions for your entrances in act one. We are having a complete run through, so pay close attention to your cues."

All the girls nodded, and murmured "Yes, Madame", and ran to their places. Christine stepped into the resin once more, to make sure she would not slip on the heavily waxed stage, and proceeded to take her place with Meg; stage right, center wing. As the overture to _Carmen _began, she adjusted her Spanish-cut dress, making sure that the shoulder straps would not move. The cream colored, Spanish cut blouse tucked into a spicy green knee length skirt, a dark floral shawl tied around her hips, and black velvet corset completed the costume. Her hair was half pulled back away from her face with a red rose on a black Spanish hair comb. The overture ended, and the girl who played Micaela came onstage. Christine closed her eyes, and let the music carry her to far off Seville. She started to faintly sing the lyrics; she knew them all, everyone did, after having rehearsals for months, but she felt she knew them even better than everyone else. She would go to the chapel sometimes, and try to practice her singing. She was happy in the ballet corps, but she dreamed of one day being the Prima Donna, performing in a grand theatre in front of adoring audiences. Just as her mind was getting completely caught up in the words, Carlotta, the Prima Donna who played Carmen, came onstage for her first song. The second she hit the first few notes, Christine's fantasies came crashing back to reality. Carlotta's voice was so incredibility…harsh. It hurt to listen to her butcher the beautifully sensual words that were Carmen.

"Oh well" she thought, and prepared herself for the ballets' first dance.

He sat far above the stage, up where the chandelier met the ceiling, but it was the perfect place to sit and not be seen. He carried a piece of parchment, a quill, an ink well, sealing wax, and a candle. He was prepared to write a response to the final dress rehearsal, and immediately give it to Madame Giry to read to the managers. They finally heeded his words for the production, and just as he knew, his ideas made the show even better that it could have been. _There's the ballet, _he thought, as he watched the talented young girls rush onstage for their first dance. Madame Giry was so proud of her dancers, and she had right to be. She pushed them very hard, but not hard enough to hurt them, enough to make them realize how difficult it was to dance, and to be proud of themselves when they went above their expectations of themselves. One girl caught his eye, a girl whose hair ran down her back in a riot of chocolate brown curls. She was quite good, being able to mix the physical movements of the dance with the sensual power of the music and the story.

The ballet ended, and with one final flourish, she was gone, off to change her costume for the second act. _Alright, back to business, _he thought, preparing himself for the second act. Hopefully Carlotta would not destroy the music with her singing, but to his dismay, she did. She always did, no matter what he said or did to change her singing or position as the Prima Donna.

He adjusted the white mask that covered the right half of his face, making sure it was securely in place just in the off chance that a stage hand saw him. The music and the story began to take hold of him, and his thoughts drifted away, away from the Opera House, away from his life, to far off Seville and story that took place there.


End file.
